


You Dream Of Dead Guys?

by TheOtherMaddHatter



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Mummy (1999)
Genre: Alternate Universe, But It Might Help, Curses, Minor Character Death, Minor Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Moriarty is The Mummy, Multi, Mummies, No Prior Knowledge Needed, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock The Librarian, The Mummy!AU, Wake The Dead, the mummy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 04:04:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2095038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOtherMaddHatter/pseuds/TheOtherMaddHatter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[The Mummy!AU]:  Sherlock, with the disastrous help of his older brother Greg, stumbles across an ancient map that's rumored to lead to Hamunaptra, the lost City of the Dead.  Said to house the wealth of Egypt.  Problem is, Hamunaptra is meant to stay lost, and when the map is partially destroyed, they're forced to rely on a guide to take them there.  One that Sherlock has to save from being put to death in Cairo Prison's gallows for having "A Good Time!."  </p><p>Unfortunately for them, the rag-tag group ends up accidentally unleashing an ancient curse which had been set on the dead High Priest Imhotep. Now he is awake once more, and threatening to unleash the fabled Plagues of Egypt in order to get what he wants.  And it's going to take a lot more than just guns and explosives to send him back from where he came from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Just Looking For A Good Time

The horsemen race across the desert with a near deafening cacophony of hoof beats from their sweating horses beneath them, and the shouts and screams of revved up men looking for blood.  Lieutenant John Watson has no idea what’s caused their now-raging blood feud.  He has no idea why all these desert dwelling men are suddenly coming down upon them with the wrath and fury of the elements themselves.  But he does know, that it probably has to do with the camels, horses, and supplies they conveniently “picked up” about two hundred miles back at some rat hole check point.  Their current Captain in command isn’t one with a spine, and ever since being drafted -more like forcefully coerced- into this mockery of an actual legionnaire, Lieutenant Watson knew that trouble couldn’t be far behind them.  It always followed him wherever he went.  It was just his luck.  

 

The Sahara is thousands of miles across, deep with the darkest nights and the most scorching of days, and here they are, out in the middle of it, fighting off native peoples who they’ve probably looted.  Watson sighs and cocks his gun, checking the chamber, and prepares for the onslaught.  He’s probably going to die.  Which really, if it gets him out of serving for the legionnaire of stupidity and the god awful heat, he’s perfectly fine with that.  He doesn’t blame these people, only the Captain in command.  The Captain, who is currently mounting up on his steed further down the low stone wall they’re all crouching behind, looks like he’s about to shit himself.  It makes John smile grimly against the sun’s brutal assault as he looks down the wall at the others stationed in his garrison.  Some of them are older then he is, weather worn and tight around the eyes with more horrors them he’s sure they can count, but others of them are young.  So very young.  Younger then he is, and he’s not all that old.  They don’t deserve to be here, to be forced into service in retribution for crimes they’ve committed wherever it was they were in the world.  And they don’t deserve to be out here about to die for some stupid treasure story.  

 

Sand and blood, that’s all that’s here at Hamunaptra now.  

 

“I knew this was going to be a lousy day.”  He grumps unhappily, checking his ammunition and coat pockets quickly.  “Lousy, lousy, lousy.”  

 

“Personally, I would like to surrender.  Why can’t we just surrender?”  

 

John looks unhappily over at Beni, a whippet thin little man with more self-preservation then smarts, and a lack of guts to go with that to boot.  He’s just as spineless as their current Captain in command, and though he doesn’t like that sort of behavior, he likes Beni.  He’s clever when he wants to be, and smart on his feet.  He’s gotten John out of a few scuffs just by being a coward, and though John would never say anything, he appreciates his company out here in the middle of no-man’s land.  He doesn’t appreciate the deserter’s attitude he’s getting now or some of Beni’s more cowardice behaviors.  The lip really doesn’t help, either.  

 

“Shut up and give me your bandolier.”  John demands tightly while Beni scrambles to comply, stripping off the cartridge belt as fast as he can before handing it over.  “Now give me your revolver.  You’ll never use it anyways, and we both know it.”  

 

Beni sneers but complies without a word, handing it over just as quickly as he had the bandolier.  He’s sweating harshly in the heat, and it gives him a greasy appearance, like a well oiled snake.  John wipes his hand off on his pants before checking Beni’s gun and then sliding the gun in his belt for use later.  He’s got a rifle and a revolver now, and that should hopefully do enough to protect him when it counts.  

 

“Let’s run away!  Right now, while we can still make it.”  Beni tries again.  “Maybe play dead, lay down in the shade and never move from that spot.  Nobody ever does that anymore.”  

 

John ignores him.  

 

“How’d you get out here, anyways?  We all know I robbed the holy places, but you?  What’d you do?” Beni’s voice drops to a stage whisper.  “Did you kill someone?”

 

“No, but I’m sure as Hell considering it.”  He snaps back, snatching Beni’s shirt front tightly before tossing him down against the wall while he eyes up the incoming raiding party.  “Now shut up and be useful.”  

 

Beni just waves him off, peeking over to top of the low stone wall hastily before snapping his head back down.  His hat flapping in his wake as he jerks about in his spot as if trying to hide in the hot sand.  Their Captain is now pacing back-and-forth on his horse, weapons put away and supplies stored, and is watching the incoming men with clear fear.  The sound of charging horses is deafening now, and the ground rattles beneath all their feet the closer the desert dwellers get.  There are no orders.  Where are the orders?  _Shit_!  There are no orders!  

 

“Steady!”  John calls out as the cowardly Captain turns on his horse and panics, cutting out and running away from the battle, out the back of the ruins and into the desert behind them.  “Steady!”  

 

“Looks like you jut got promoted, Captain Watson.”  Beni snickers before John kicks at him harshly to shut him up.  “Ow, ow!  Watch it there!”  

 

John has more important things to do now then to listen to Beni sass his way through his trail-by-fire.  He’s trying to give the other men around him courage, courage he himself doesn’t really feel, but Hell, it’s worth a shot.  If he can save even a few of these men, then it’ll be worth it.  And that’s what being a commanding officer is all about.  Real captain or not.  

 

“Steady!”  

 

The men are letting loose large whooping war cries, and they echo loudly across the semi-flat planes of sand before them.  A few of the men down the line turn tail and run off behind their fleeing commander, but John doesn’t give them any concern.  They’d have been better off in the group.  Not alone in the desert’s harsh environment alone and without proper resources.  But there’s hardly anything he can do for them now.  He sees the flash of light off gun barrels and riffles in the horse men’s group and cocks his own gun in preparation.  He’s as ready as he’s ever going to be, and in another beat, they’ll be upon them.  John spits into the sand to clear his mouth when out of the corner of his eye he sees Beni stand up and high tail it out of there, zig-zagging across the sand as fast as he can go, darting this way and that to avoid a few stray shots the raiders are now firing.  It’s too late, he has to focus, Beni can take care of himself.  He’s like a cockroach, surviving in even the more unfavorable situations.   


“Fire!”  He shouts as the two groups clash together.  “Fire!”  

 

Gun fire goes off all around him.  Flashes of light from metal glinting in the high noon sun, the blasts of different weapons meeting at close rang.  Some of them blast men off their horses, while others on their mounts cut down people in his line.  The first round of firing leaves a majority of the other legionnaires helpless as they all struggle to quickly reload.  John’s done, his gun ready to fire again, and with him he hopes there are others ready as well.  He takes aim and calls for another volley of gun fire.  Explosions happen sporadically all around him, and men on both sides fall.  Thunder and smoke rip the hot air as he takes a deep breath in.  So many men are falling, lives wasted for acts of stupidity and greed.  But John has no plans to die today, or any day in the near future, for that matter.  He’s a survivor, and that’s exactly what he’ll do.  What he’s always done.  Survive.  

 

When some of the smoke clears and the battle is mostly done, he finds himself alone and facing down four men on horse back.  He’s out of ammunition, guns worthless now, so he turns and bolts off around the rocks and ruins that had stood at his back.  The men chase after him, getting closer and closer on their horses, the great animal’s hot breath racing down his neck and spine.  The pounding of hooves is so loud that it’s only drowned out by his own panting breaths.  It is so loud.  

 

Finally, Watson has had enough, and spins around to face his attackers as he darts through an in-tact archway further into the ruins.  He stands at the base of some ancient statue, it’s decrepit face glaring down at him in judgement, and turns to face his attackers with aplomb.  The four massive horses crash to a stop before him, but on the other side of the pillars, and raise their rifles to finish him off.  John smiles nastily and gives them the bird, hoping the gesture translates across the language barrier in his final moments.

 

He just stands there, pretty exhausted and sweaty, and waits.  

 

And that’s when all their horses lose their minds.  

 

All four of them rear up together, as if spooked all at once, and two of the riders are thrown to the ground in their terror.  They all screech and bellow and snort in horrors unseen as they continue to buck and fight before turning and hauling ass away as if the devil were at their very feet.  They take two of the riders with them, but the remaining two are still laying stunned on the ground, but soon they too get up and look to him before fleeing.  Their faces gone pale and pasty with fear that John doesn’t understand.  They were alone here, this was to be his sandy grave for all of eternity.  But instead he just stands there, stunned, while the silence settles about him.  He is alone and he is very, _very_ confused.  

 

Then the noises start up.  

 

They sound like a hundred far-off voices all murmuring together in unison, humming and praying and crying.  As if they were buried just under his feet, John realizes, and he whips his head around trying to find their source.  But he sees no one, and there is no one but him here, standing alone in the end of a blood bath.  The voices continue and soon grow louder, so John turns to look at the statue behind him like it would hold the secrets to the known world, but it offers no support.  Instead, it looks even angrier then it had previously, and it makes John shudder.  It feels like someone is walking on his grave.  No, more like tap dancing on his grave, and all the hair stands up on the back of his neck all at once before there’s a silent beat where the voices fall silent and the sands beneath his feet erupt in anger.  

 

John tries to back away, keeping his eyes locked on the transforming sand all around him, because it looks like huge snakes have suddenly come alive beneath them and are writhing their way to the surface.  They form lines and shapes and mounds, like a picture in the sand, before falling and starting all over again.  But he does know that they’re growing closer and bigger and are quickly trapping him in the center before there’s a lull again and he sees a huge screaming face raise up out of the desert itself, the screeching accompanying it supernatural in origin.  The face gasps and contorts as if in pain before dropping to settle again, the sand restless as if to move again.  That’s it, that’s all the prompting John needs.  He bolts off out of the ruins and straight into the desert without a second thought, heedless for his own safety now.  It’s either die there or be ripped apart at the ruins by something no human is meant to see on this plane of existence.  He’s good. 

 

\-- 

 

Above him, high upon a ridge, stand a group of riders that stare down at the scene far below them with a neutral distaste.  They watch apathetically as Watson stumbles and flails out of the ruins on uncoordinated feet in his fear, and they know what it is he’s seen.  They do not care.  They just want him gone from the ruins and out of the decrepit city that they are charged to guard.  Because their purpose for being there is so much more different from that of the raiders or the legionnaires, and in truth, they do not care for the squabbling of petty men fighting amongst one another.  They only care for their silent guard and the secret that they keep.  

 

They are the Medjai.  

 

Charged with the watching of the great Priest Imhotep’s tomb for all of eternity.  To watch and protect the land of Egypt, and to ensure that his final prison is never disturbed or opened.  Marked for their work from their fathers, and their fathers before them, they bear the ancient weight that the secret of Hamunaptra holds.  Each facial tattoo holds significance in their own journeys through life and as spiritual guards, and each path they take leads to the continued silence this sacred place has been cast into.  They will not allow for that secret to get out or flourish, and they are prepared to stop this last man lingering in the sands.  

 

“Should we kill him?”  One asks their leader in their mother tongue, awaiting the command to end this arrogant little man as he staggers off into the open desert.  Before he gets too far.  “Your orders, sir?”  

 

“The desert will kill him.”  The Leader answers with a benevolent nod and a semi-dismissive wave.  “Let the sand and sun take back the city’s secrets.”  

 

He does not know it then, but down below them, Captain John Watson feels their presence watching him, judging him for his worth.  He turns only once to look at them as they look at him, before turning back and continuing on his way.  And John knows, like any good predator knows, when something bigger and badder then he is, is allowing him his life.  He’ll take it without a word of complaint, thanks.  He wants to live.  

 

Because John Watson is a survivor.  


	2. Loosen The Knot And Let Me Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told myself I was going to wait till tomorrow to post this. I couldn't wait that long, and I'm getting busy. So before I forget/get distracted, I figured it'd go up. Enjoy!

“Well then...”  Sherlock says lightly.  “I’m not sure ‘Oops’ covers this.”  

 

It comes as no surprise that this has happened.  Really, it’s more of a surprise that it’s taken this long for him to completely destroy the library in the small museum that he works for in Cairo.  Sherlock sighs, and sighs again as he takes in the complete disaster he’s made of the numerous shelves and tomes in the small space.  They’d been stuffed full and high, and in one fell swoop, he’d managed to not only knock over every single shelving unit in here, but also dislodge and send flying countless priceless texts.  He’d single-handedly just destroyed a good portion of the Cairo Museum of Antiquities, and most of it’s many texts.  Some where still fluttering brilliantly to the floor, as if in defiance of gravity.  And Sherlock’s imminent doom.  Because once Dr. Harry Queens got ahold of him, well, there wouldn’t be much left afterwards.  Oh no, this was going to end so very badly. 

 

“What?  What?”  Dr. Queens’ voice sputters somewhere behind him, and as Sherlock turns, he sees him climbing over one of the many downed shelves.  His face is pale, and a look of furious resignation is flitting across it quickly.  “Sons of the Pharaoh!  Look at this!  Give me frogs, flies, locust!  _Anything but you_!”  

 

Sherlock blinks before sputtering back to life, voice stuttering around an attempt at an explanation.  He cannot find the words to properly express his remorse before Dr. Queens is waving him off and angrily continuing.  His voice has gone up two octaves, and he is now shouting down at him as he prowls around the shelves with little care for his priceless library now serving as stepping stones beneath him.  

 

“Compared to you I’m sure the other plagues were a joy!  A blessing, even!  But my gods, Sherlock--”

 

“Dr. Queens, I am so very sorry!  It was an accident, I swear!”  Sherlock cuts in, trying to cut him off before he really got going.  Before he got going and did something rash, like fire him for good this time.  “I’ll clean it all up!  It was an accident!”

 

“My boy, when Ramses destroyed Syria, _that_ was an accident.  This?”  He gestures around him wildly.  “This is a catastrophe!”  

 

Sherlock winces and takes a step back as if struck, and Dr. Queens takes the chance to finish traipsing over the mountains of downed books and stalking towards him.  He’s growing more angered now, the further he walks, and it is startling on his normally pleasant and calm face.  Oh no, Sherlock’s sure done it now.  If he’s not fired, he’ll be shocked.  And hurt either way because this job is his very life.  

 

“Why do I put up with you?”  He snaps, and Sherlock turns back to him, trying to contain himself.  “Why in the name of fate do I put up with any of this?”  

 

Sherlock perks up slightly, face setting in determination.  

 

“You put up with me because I can read and write Ancient Egyptian, decipher hieroglyphs and hieratic, and I’m the only person within a thousand miles of Cairo who knows how to properly code and catalogue this library!”  He says in one long, huffed out statement.  “I’m smart, and clever, and I do this museum a fair bit of good.”  

 

“I put up with you because your mother and father were our finest patrons, may the gods rest their souls.” He says and sighs, putting his head in his hands and rubbing his temples roughly in frustration.  “Now, I want you to put this whole library back to rights.  Straighten up this mess!”  

 

Dr. Queens turns and storms out then, kicking a few stray tomes as he goes, muttering in what Sherlock assumes in Arabic as he goes.  Sherlock stands there quietly and watches him go, surprised that he’s still employed, but dismayed none-the-less.  It’ll take him ages to get this place straightened up, and he’ll have to at least go out and find some hired help to help him right the shelves themselves before he can even start thinking about reorganizing the shelves and there are books everywhere, those will have to move before the hired hands come in...  There just so much to consider and do before he can even get started straightening up the mess he’s made!  No, dismayed doesn’t even quite begin to cover what he’s feeling, but it is a nice start.  

 

Maybe one of the few museum delivery hands would be willing to stick around and help?  Yes, that might work.  

 

Sherlock’s thoughts are interrupted by a loud bang followed by a soft whimper that drifts in from the other room, the one filled with many of the larger exhibits.  No one should be in there, as he’s the only one there.  So who could have made that noise?  And how had they gotten by him and the curator?  

 

“Abdul?  Mohammed?  Are you there?”  He asks loudly, walking towards the doorway into the mummy display.  The light here is low, cast only in torchlight, and he doesn’t see anyone when he enters.  “Bob?  Anyone?”  

 

The room is filled with many of the treasures and plunder from the various Middle Kingdom dig sites that the museum had funded.  It’s very quiet in here, Sherlock notices, especially when one is alone and investigating a mysterious noise.  But the only noise he hears now are the flickering torches that burn under the gentle breeze that flows through the museum interior.  Sherlock is studying the far wall when the thumping noise sounds again, much closer this time, followed by a slow shuffling sound, like feet plodding across the floor hazardously at the other end of the spooky gallery.  

 

 

Sherlock doesn’t hesitate this time, and snatches up a torch before continuing onwards into the gallery further.  If someone is in here, and they do mean him harm, then it can’t be any worse then the curator’s fury earlier.  At least this might be swift...

 

The thumping sounds again, this time closer to the statue of Anubis and Horus as they stare down at him in judgement while he quickly hurries over.  He refuses to acknowledge the small flickering of fear that’s creepy up his spine, and shoves it to the side as he continues into the many aisles of artifacts.  There’s a closed sarcophagus here, and then a few cases of jewelry and small trinkets, followed by yet another sarcophagus...  Except, this one is open.  It shouldn’t be opened, Sherlock thinks as he freezes.  The lid is huge, heavy, would require at least two people to open it, and that would be loud in the quiet of the museum.  Certainly he would have heard it if other were in here opening one of the cases, wouldn’t he?  

 

He swallows hard and works up the nerve to nervously approach and look down into the sarcophagus to see if there’s a clue as to who had opened it, but the moment he peers inside a hideous, rotted mummy sits up and reaches for him, screeching and crying as it stretches out.  Sherlock screams and drops the torch before reeling backwards, crashing into one of the cases behind him, catching his hip as he goes.  He’s scared out of his wits, and unsure of what to do about the mummy that’s now reanimated and feeling touch-starved as it reaches for him.  His hip aches, his shins have been skinned on his way backwards, and now there’s cackling coming up out of the sarcophagus after the now hesitating body.  Not only cackling, but a rather familiar voice laughing at his distress.  

 

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock glares down at the man now revealing himself.  What a cad, he thinks to himself, his ire and anger growing exponentially as he continues to laugh at Sherlock’s expense.  He’s laughing his ass off now, and clearly still partially drunk from wherever he’d been the night before.  

 

“You... Why I ought to--”

 

“Oh Sherlock, please, do threaten me with something original this time!”  The man laughs even harder, and slaps the side of the coffin in his mirth.  “Or call me something new this time.  Foolish rat bastard is getting sort of old.”

 

“Have you no respect for the dead, Greg?”  Sherlock snaps back as he reaches out to pull a familiar cigarette from the mummy’s mouth.  “Really now.”  

 

“Well, sometimes, I’d rather like to join them!”  He grins drunkenly, smiling up at Sherlock with as much mirth and love as he can muster. 

 

“Well I wish you’d do it sooner rather then later, before you ruin my career the way you’ve ruined yours.”  

 

“My dear, sweet, baby brother!  I’ll have you--” He says before attempting to hoist himself out of the sarcophagus, failing at first, then just throwing himself over the edge finally, landing at Sherlock’s feet.  “I’ll have you know, that at this moment, my career is on a high note!”  

 

“High note?  High note, he says.  Ha!” Sherlock slaps his upper arm hard before continuing to glare at him.  “For five years you’ve been scrounging around Egypt, and what have you to show for it?  Nothing, that’s what.  Absolutely nothing.” 

 

Greg belches before falling back to sit at the edge of the pedestal the sarcophagus he’d been resting in was sat upon.  He was still smiling, and now had the cigarette Sherlock had pilfered from the mummy back in his mouth.  How he’d gotten it back from Sherlock, he’s not sure, but there it is.  And it makes Sherlock see red before Greg whips something out of his inner jacket pocket with a flourish.  It temporarily distracts him from the lecture he was about to give Greg once again.  

 

“Oh Sherlock, you greatly underestimate my abilities.  I think you don’t believe in me, sometimes.” He smirks before handing him the small, black box that catches the torch light oddly.  “I have something right here for you.  Just take a look and then tell me what you think.  Take your time, now.  No rush.”  

 

“Not another worthless trinket, Greg, if I bring one more piece of junk to the curator to try and sell for you, I swear...” He says while he snatches the small box promptly from Greg’s outstretched hand to study it.  It’s so strange, but it feels right in his hand.  Like a long lost friend.  “Where did you get this?”  

 

Greg immediately takes notice of the shift in Sherlock’s mood, and grins more brightly at knowing his brother so well.  Sherlock’s intellectual weaknesses are something he’s well known for, and Greg wouldn’t consider himself a very good brother if he didn’t know this about Sherlock.  Not when it’s so utterly blatant and written on the younger man’s face.  Oh yes, he knows him so very well.  And he has him now.  

 

“Oh a dig, yeah, down in Thebes.”  Sherlock rolls the box around in his hands, mumbling to himself absently while Greg continues on, as if he’s already translating the glyphs covering the small panels it’s made up of.  “My whole life I’ve never found anything, Sherlock.  Please, tell me I’ve found something.”  

 

Sherlock’s fingers play with various little slats, ledges, and corners of the box while he shifts it this way and that.  It’s a tiny puzzle box, he thinks, it must be, but the hieratic doesn’t make any sense for a child’s game, and the slats are more like buttons to be pressed together.  So carefully, Sherlock presses them all together at once, and the box unfolds itself, almost-mechanically, before blossoming into a radial sun of polished metals.  And there, sitting delicately in the middle of the blossom, is a folded piece of ancient, golden papyrus paper.  The order he’d pressed the buttons had been the key, he’d realized, and this... This was the _prize_.  

 

“Greg?”  He says slowly, delicate fingers pulling out the ancient paper carefully.  

 

“Yes, Sherlock?”  

 

“I think you’ve found something.”  

 

\--

 

Dr. Queens does not look even the littlest bit impressed with the recently unfolded map that Sherlock and Greg had found inside the metallic flower box.  Probably, Sherlock thinks with a bit of shame, because his brother attempts to hawk things through the museum on a fairly regular basis.  He’s used to this tom foolery by now.  And the prospect of finding junk.  But this, this discovery, is not junk.  Not even close to junk, Sherlock’s certain.  He’s deciphered the words himself, and he’s excitedly trying to tell Dr. Queens just exactly what it is they’ve found.  What Greg has dug up from whatever little hole in Thebes he’d been digging in this time.  He’s hovering, he knows, but he can’t help it.  It’s just so exciting!  

 

“See the cartouche there?  It’s the official, royal seal of Seti the First, I’m sure of it!”  He says with a flourish and a tiny bit of pride.  “And those twining borders are customary in all of the publications of that time period.”  

 

“Perhaps.”  Dr. Queens says, unimpressed.  “Perhaps not.”  

 

Greg leans across the desk with little regards to personal space, and Sherlock cringes slightly before waving the feelings off.  Dr. Queens didn’t even seem to notice, so wrapped up in his study as he was.  It wouldn’t matter.  

 

“Two questions.  Who the Hell is Seti the First, and was he rich?”  

 

Sherlock stops pacing before shooting him an award winning smile over Dr. Queen’s shoulder, face lighting up in excitement and happiness Greg rarely sees on his dour, serious face.  It’s telling in and of itself.  

 

“He was the last Pharaoh of the Old Kingdom, said to be the wealthiest pharaoh of them all, and the Wealth of All of Egypt.”  Dr. Queen picks up the map, and looks closer while Sherlock points out things for his brother carefully.  “I’ve already dated it.  This map is almost four thousand years old, and the hieratic over here...  It’s _Hamunaptra_.”  

 

Everyone freezes, the curator seemingly very nervous, but Greg is nearly vibrating in his chair, shaking out of sheer adrenaline and excitement of their prospective find.  He’d been excited before, of course, convinced that what he’d found was worth it’s tiny weight in gold.  But _this_?  _This_ was worth more gold then the desert had sand.  

 

Oh yes, Greg most certainly likes this Seti the First.  

 

“My dear boy, don’t be ridiculous!  We are scholars, not treasure hunters!  Hamunaptra is a myth.  A fairy tale told to grave robbers and thieves.”  

 

“Wait, we are talking about **_the_** Hamunaptra?”  Greg asks tightly.  “As in the City of The Dead, where the entirety city is said to be made of gold?”  

 

“Yes, that Hamunaptra, but really Greg, you’re confusing your legendary cities.  It’s El Dorado that’s made of solid gold, not Hamunaptra.  But it _is_ said to be where the early Pharaohs kept and hid the wealth of Egypt.”  Sherlock impatiently corrects, but is still nearly vibrating in place.  “And we’ve found a map to the lost city.”  

 

Dr. Queens huffs and holds up the map as he gestures towards them both, showing his disapproval for their discussion silently as he continues on with his study.  His nose is nearly pressed against the old papyrus, and his jeweler’s glass is set aside in exchange for his own eyes to study the writings carefully drawn out there.  The small candle-lamp behind the paper lights up all the details like small stars all on their own where old gold leafing once was placed on to illuminate the pathway through the desert.  He’s humming and rotating it around when suddenly the map catches flame, and part of it bursts into a startling array of golds, reds, and oranges with a suddenness that makes fear leap into their throats.

 

“Oh goodness!”    

 

Quickly, Dr. Queens throws it to the ground far away from them both, but Greg and Sherlock are quicker, and they both rush to start patting it out.  With their combined efforts, they manage to save it faster then either alone, but by now there is a good portion of it burnt off and gone forever.  It’s horribly clumsy and saddening that someone as esteemed as the great Egyptologist Dr. Harry Queens would allow something so easily preventable to happen to a relic such as this.  It’s neglectful, and if Sherlock hadn’t been so concerned with what they were now missing forever, he would have realized it was very carefully planned and executed on Queens’ part.  The left third of the map is now gone.  

 

“You burnt it!  You burnt off a part of the lost city!”  Greg accuses with a whine.  “How could you?”  

 

“It’s for the best, I’m sure.”  Dr. Queens says reasonably, like he hadn’t just destroyed a priceless Egyptian artifact.  “Many men have wasted their lives in the foolish pursuit of Hamunaptra.  No one has ever found it, most have never returned.  And I’m sure your brother would rather prefer you alive, as opposed to forever lost to the sands of Egypt.”  

 

But Greg is devastated.  Absolutely devastated.  

 

“You killed my map.”


	3. It's Probably A Fake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh... I'm not sorry. 
> 
> P.S. The term "Ethel" in the 1920's means "An effeminate man" and is not a nice term. It's not quite derogatory, but still sort of shocking, and not something used in polite company. When John uses it, he intentionally uses it to rile Sherlock up. Pressing buttons is what he does.

“You told me you got it on a dig in Thebes!”  Sherlock all but screeches in Greg’s ear as they both stroll into Cairo Prison.  On their way to meet this man that Greg had all but pick-pocketed for his little trinket find.  “You lied to me!”  

 

“I was mistaken!”  

 

“You lied to me, Gregory!”  

 

“I lie to everybody, Sherlock.  All the time, even.”  Greg shoots back with a dismissive wave.  “What makes you so special?”  

 

“I am your brother!”  

 

“That just makes you all the more gullible.”  

 

Greg pats Sherlock’s hand gently, as if soothing a small child, and Sherlock sees red.  He nearly jerks his arm out of Greg’s before he comes back to himself and realizes just exactly where they are.  This is Hell on earth, Sherlock is sure, and it reeks to the high heavens from every nook and cranny around them.  Every low-life, scuttling scumbag has a notch in these walls, and even the guards escorting them deeper into the maze-like compound have an air of distrust about them.  Sherlock is glad that he did not have to come alone to find Greg’s mysterious “donor” because there are more then a few men leering out of their pens at him and cat-calling from behind the bars.  He feels dirty just standing here, and even dirtier when the Warden himself approaches with a filthy wink and a smile that could curdle milk.  

 

“Come, come!  And step over the threshold!”  Warden Gad Hassan says with a mighty sweep of his arms, as if this is paradise and not a shit hole for the morally dubious.  “Welcome to Cairo Prison, my most humblest of homes.”  

 

He says something else in his grand speech, but Sherlock tunes him out and focuses on putting one foot in front of the other.  Sherlock only has to make it to the visitor’s pen, as the Warden had called it briefly (though it’s more like a cage, really), and get through the talk with the man before he and Greg can high tail it out of there.  Scott free and hopefully with enough information to make up for the burnt part of the map.  

 

“What is he in prison for, exactly?”  He finally finds enough courage to ask.

 

“This I did not know.  So when I heard you were coming, I asked him that myself.”  

 

“And what exactly did he say?”  Sherlock’s mildly curious now.  “What was his answer?”  

 

“He said that he was ‘Just looking for a good time!’.”  

 

The interior cell doorway slams open with a rush of air and a thunderous sound as the man they are there to see is escorted into the visitors pen and forced to his knees.  It is less of an escort and more of being forced, complete with a club to the shoulders in order to get him to kneel before them.  Warden Hassan just smirks down at the man at his feet without a care, but Sherlock can’t help but flinch from the sound and smell.  John Watson has been drug in by four guards, and they take turns trying to shove him up against the bars as hard as they can, but the man himself seems not to be bothered by the treatment.  In fact, he hardly seems bothered by anything, really, despite his rough appearance and long, stringy hair glued to his dirty and sweat stained face.  He too is leering up at Sherlock, a slow shoe-to-brow sweep enough to make his feather’s ruffle and bristle, before turning to speak directly to Greg.  

 

“So who’s the Ethel?”  

 

“Ethel?”  Sherlock says, nearly screeching, hands going white in tension. “Ethel!”

 

But Greg and Watson ignore him, and he fumes silently while they continue on with their own little conversation.  No one seems to care that he’s just besmirched Sherlock’s honor, or that he’s just called him something so hateful that it makes him recoil a bit.  Not even the guards blink twice at the words Watson has said.  

 

“He’s my brother, actually.”  Greg smirks.  “I’m a local missionary sort of chap, but this, this is my brother Sherlock.”  

 

“Yeah?  Well, I’m sure he’s not a total loss.”  Greg shrugs but Watson just grins.  “Do I know you?”  

 

Greg’s answer is drowned out by the yelling and metal clanging from somewhere back in the depths of the prison, and the Warden frowns before turning and yelling something back in unfamiliar Arabic.  There’s more angry clanging and shouts, and he sighs heavily before continuing his shouting that Sherlock hardly understands.  He’s waving furiously at someone far off behind them, but Sherlock doesn’t turn to look.  Doesn’t even acknowledge the Warden until the man sighs and touches his arm lightly.  Sherlock attempts to shy away from the unwanted attention.  

 

“I’ll be right back.”  

 

“Oh, we tremble with anticipation.”  Watson says sarcastically, and the guards club him hard across the head for his troubles.  His face bounces off the metal bars before him, but he shows no pain.  Just shrugs to loosen his shoulders before turning back to them.  

 

“We, uh, found your puzzle box, Mr. Watson, and we’ve come to ask you about it.  If we could, of course, I’d hate to be presumptuous.”  

 

“No.”  

 

“No?  I beg your pardon...”

 

“No.  You came to ask me about Hamunaptra.”  

 

Sherlock and Greg quickly look around, hoping the guards didn’t hear him, before looking to one another for a moment.  The guards are ignoring them, though, and for that they are thankful.  They instantly step closer, and Sherlock plays as coy as he can.  

 

“How do you know the box contains anything in regards to Hamunaptra?”  

 

“Because that’s where I was when I found it.”  Watson says smugly, looking up at him with clear superiority, despite his kneeling state.  “I was there.”  

 

Sherlock is dumbstruck, flabbergasted, and clearly confused.  How could the man have been there when he found it, if he would have needed it -and the map it contained- to get to the city in the first place?  But Greg is suspicious.  This sounds like a con, and a poor one.  He should know, he’s been running them for ages.  

 

“How do we know that that’s not a load of hog swallow?”  

 

Watson narrows his eyes at Greg, glaring tightly.  

 

“Hey, don’t I know you?”  

 

“Oh, well, I’ve got one of those faces, you see, and...”  

 

Watson’s fist comes barreling out from behind the bars with the speed of bat’s coming out of the flames of Hell itself, and it catches Greg square in the jaw.  The resounding smack is loud and harsh, and Sherlock has to admit that it was a good, solid blow.  Enough to completely deck his idiot of an older brother, almost knock him out cold, before he hits the dusty ground with a yelp.  Sherlock doesn’t turn when Greg goes flying behind him, but instead watches as Watson is once again clubbed by the guards for his troubles.  This time he winces and grits his teeth, knees slipping wider under the heavy rain of the blows.  They end just as quickly as they start, and then there is only Watson’s heavy panting and Greg’s nasally whining as he complains about his nose and the bloody state of his favorite shirt.  Sherlock glances quickly over at Greg as one of the guards show him somewhere to clean up before looking back to Watson, one eyebrow delicately raised.  

 

“You were actually at Hamunaptra?”  He says, trying to reaffirm the story.  

 

“I just decked your brother, and that’s what you’re worried about?”  

 

“Yes, well, I know my brother.”  Sherlock shrugs.  “I do not know you.”  

 

Watson smirks a bit.  

 

“Yeah, I was there.”  

 

“You swear?”  

 

“Every damn day.”  

 

“No, I mean --”  Sherlock starts, but is rudely cut off.  

 

“I know what you mean.  I was there, okay, at Seti’s place.  City of the Dead and all that jazz.”  Watson turns his head and spits at the feet of the nearest guard, smiling as it hits it’s target.  “Bunch of rocks, really.  A lot of them.”  

 

“What did you find?  What all did you see?”  

 

“We found death, and I saw blood.  There is nothing out there but sand and blood and rocks.  Nothing.  Nothing at all.”  He stares up at Sherlock, meeting his gaze.  “It is not someplace pleasant.”  

 

“Could you tell me how to get there?  I mean, the exact location?”  Sherlock leans down closer to Watson as the Warden enters once more, so they’re not overheard.  “I’d be very grateful, after all.”  

 

“You want to know?”  Sherlock leans even closer, Watson mirroring him.  “Seriously?”  

 

“Yes.”

 

“Really want to know?”  

 

“Yes, of course.”  He leans his face right up next to the bars, excited and nervous, hanging off of Watson’s every word.  “I want to know.  Yes.”  

 

Watson darts forward and kisses him hard and heavy, full on the lips.  His are chapped and dry and cracked, and Sherlock suddenly can’t breathe with the other man’s mouth pinned so very tightly to his own before being suddenly ripped away from their brief but shocking contact.  

 

“Then get me the Hell outta here!”  

 

Sherlock is stunned, cheeks pink on their high points, mouth slightly opened in a delicate bowing ‘o’ as the guards around Watson descend on the filthy man, clubbing and kicking at him as he bounces here and there with their assaults.  They grab him at the shout of the Warden to Sherlock’s left, and yank him away from the bars before carelessly dragging him out of the visitor’s pen and back into the darkness of the prison beyond.  He’s almost speechless for a whole minute before he has enough sense to gather his wits about him and turn to the stinking little roll of a man who calls himself the Warden, and demand answers.  

 

“Where are they taking him?”  

 

“To be hanged.”  The Warden replies carelessly before showing off his greenish teeth.  “It’s long past due, I assure you.”  

 

“Why?”  

 

“Apparently, he had a very good time.”  

 

\--

 

Sherlock is appalled at the hundreds of filthy prisoners that are ushered into the main courtyard in order to stare down or up at the gallows places menacingly in the center.  It’s a high platform that’s held up by a serious of rickety wooden ladders and steps, and a few carelessly tied wooden beams that are bound together at the base.  It doesn’t look like it should stand, let alone hold the weight of Watson and the men guarding him.  But it does.  There is a noose draped over Watson’s head, quickly tightening across his neck, and the hangman begins checking over everything in final preparations for the execution.  Sherlock can feel eyes following him as he follows the Warden onto the small balcony above the entire yard, and there are a few calls and whistles from men below them in his direction.  They’re like jackals searching for new prey, and Sherlock’s it.  

 

“I will give you one hundred pounds to spare this man’s life.”  Sherlock says immediately as they sit, turning to the Warden with a fierce look in his eyes.  “That’s more than fair.”  

 

“I would pay one hundred pounds just to see him hang.  No deal.”  

 

“Two hundred pounds.”  

 

“Proceed!”  The Warden calls, and the tension begins winding up.  

 

“Three hundred pounds!”  

 

Sherlock doesn’t know if Watson can hear his request or their discussion, but he looks hopeful, and brazenly grins up at the Warden and himself even as the hangman comes back to stand at his side.  The lever for the trap door is prepared and ready, and suddenly all the sound in the yard dies down.  It is dead silent.  

 

The hangman turns to Watson.  

 

“Any last requests, pig?”  

 

“Yeah, loosen the knot, and let me go.”  

 

The hangman looks stunned for a moment before turning to shout out to the Warden in Arabic, voice nimble and fleeting as they discuss Watson’s retort and odd request in their flowing vowels.  Sherlock is watching them carefully and trying to scheme, trying to fix this.  He hasn’t got a lot of time.  He has to act now to save Watson’s life.  

 

“Five hundred pounds!”  

 

The Warden stops his discussion with the hangman in favor of turning to him, a greasy, lecherous hand sliding up onto Sherlock’s upper thigh.  The hand is hot, and Sherlock can feel it through his trousers, scalding him like a brand.  

 

“And what else?”  The Warden licks his lips.  “I am a very lonely man...”

 

Revolted, Sherlock shoves the man’s hand away, and the prisoners around them erupt in laughter and jeering at the Warden’s expense.  Insulted, he turns and angrily gestures for the hangman to continue, and they both watch as hangman pulls the lever.  The trapdoor pops open and drops away, sending a bound up John Watson down with it.  Sherlock can hear himself scream out as it all happens, as if in slow motion, demanding for it to stop.  As if his very denial and despise for the act will reverse time and put the world back to rights.  

 

“ ** _NO!_** ”  

 

The rope snaps tight, and then jerks taught as his full weight pulls against it with the force of the drop, and Watson’s entire body snaps at the end of the rope with a near-sickening sound. Sherlock turns away briefly, afraid at what he finds, until the sound of gagging and a frustrated huff from the Warden makes him turn back to what he was sure was a now vacant body.  

 

But somehow, Watson is still alive.  Alive and struggling at the end of the rope.  

 

“Look!  His neck did not break!”  The Warden yells out, as if Sherlock cannot see this for himself.  “Good!  Now we will get to watch him slowly strangle to death.”  

 

The prisoners reflect how Sherlock feels in this very instant, and begin to lose their minds, screaming and shouting out in anger.  Wether it’s for him or for Watson, Sherlock isn’t sure, but they begin chanting and banging on the bars as everyone watches Watson struggle at the end of the rope, gagging and sputtering as his air is quickly running out.  Sherlock is horrified, and turns to the Warden, leaning forward to speak directly in his face.  

 

“He knows the location to Hamunaptra.”  

 

Warden Hassan spins around and faces him, starring him right in the eye.

 

“You lie.”  

 

“I would never!”  

 

He’s outraged at the mere accusation, but there are more important things to worry about.  Namely, Watson, who is still choking and gaging and now turning several shades of very impressive red.  He’s not going to last much longer.  And the Warden is still staring at him.  

 

“Are you saying that this filthy, godless, song of a pig knows where to find The City of the Dead?  Truly?”  

 

“Yes, and if you cut him down, we’ll give you... ten percent.”  

 

“Fifty percent.”  The Warden retorts, ever looking out for himself.

 

“Twenty.”  Is Sherlock’s return.  

 

“Forty.”  

 

“Thirty!”

 

“Twenty-five!”  

 

The Warden shouts out his newest offer in the heat of the moment, and Sherlock doesn’t hesitate to snatch at the chance and the man’s slip up.  Like a snake, Sherlock springs, eyes locked on Watson, whose eyes are now bulging as he stares up at them both.  

 

“Ah-ha!  We have a deal!”  He smiles and produces his hand to shake on the deal, as all proper English Gentlemen should.  

 

The Warden, now realizing his mistake and being out-shown by Sherlock, cries out and grabs on tightly in defeat, shaking in jerky motions before calling out in Arabic for Watson to be cut down.  A scimitar flashes out of one of the guard’s belts and flies through the air, severing the rope holding Watson up, and sends him hurtling to the ground.  He crashes into the dirt and dust, half-dead, coughing and hacking as he rolls over to stare up at the sky in relief.  Up and to where Sherlock and the Warden are, and watches through cloudy eyes as Sherlock stands up regally, smirking down at Watson with his own brand of shining mischief.  This man, this man had saved his life, and Watson knew that Sherlock would never hold it over him.  

 

All around them, the prisoners burst into cheers, and their chanting reaches a loud pinnacle as Watson is helped to his feet and unbound, daggers cutting ropes before leading him off.  Sherlock will see to it that he’s cleaned up and promptly released before attending to the details of the deal with the Warden.  As a proper English Gentlemen should, of course.  He is a man of his word.  

 

Now, to go and find his loathsome, idiot of a brother.  


	4. You're Warning Me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I got a few notes and reviews asking about historical accuracies and plot points, and I just wanted everyone to know that I'm sticking as close to the movie plot as I can. I'll tamper/manipulate certain plot points, of course, based on gender and character, but otherwise, it's all going to be fairly on-movie point as I can get. Thanks for reading guys!

The candle light flickers menacingly across the face of the Curator as he sits in contemplative silence in his office.  Before him, standing partially in the shadows, stands three of his best trackers and assassins, ready to lay down their lives to serve their sacred duty.  It hurts him to think of what this has come too, but what must be done, must be done, in order to protect the entire world.  It must be carried out.  These men will see it done.  He will not be further involved in this, or further invested.  He only hopes he can be forgiven in the after life for sentencing Sherlock and his brother to death.  

 

“He must die.”  He says quietly, and the candle flickers harder at his words.  “There is no other way around it.”  

 

“He’s like all the others, and will die in the desert.”  The one with a rusty hook for a hand says, shrugs, before picking at something on his clothing.  “Why call us?”  

 

“Because he has seen too much!  He knows too much.”  Dr. Queens sighs again and slouches a bit, head in his hands.  “I allowed this to go too far.  And now he must be dealt with.”  

 

If there is fear in his voice, no one mentions it.  

 

The man huffs.  

 

“You do not understand.  Not only does he have the map, but he also has what I’m fairly certain is the lost key.  It is what contained the map.”  Suddenly he has everyone’s attention again, and they all look at him in horror and fear.  “They leave on a boat in the morning.  If you are swift, you may catch up to them in the dark of the night into their voyage and do what you must.  He must be stopped, or it will be the end of us all.”  

 

“Then we will kill him, and we will kill all those with her.  The whole boat will go up in flames.”  The man promises darkly, and he and his brothers swirl their cloaks tightly against themselves in preparation to leave.  “No one will survive.”  

 

“Burn what remains of the map, and retrieve the key.  I will see to its dismantling and scattering.  I will not allow any to come this close ever again, as is my duty.”  

 

“It will be done.  We will kill them all, destroy the map, and bring back the key.”  

 

“That is all I can ask.”  

 

\--

 

The port is swarming with life as Sherlock and Greg make their way through, their bags bumping into people as they rush by, or shifting them away as cattle and their herders maneuver through the small walk ways.  Hawkers and buyers are doing business on all seeming points, small boats and carts lined up and being gone through in search of the best goods.  All around them are small groups of other explorers and scientists, each gearing up for their own trip, oblivious to the world and others around them.  Behind them, the river sparkles brightly in the morning sun, more quiet then all the activity going on around them.  Sherlock marvels at the beauty briefly before Greg urges him along, a gentle hand at the crook of his elbow.  

 

“Do you really think he’ll show up?”  Sherlock asks finally, the question weighing heavily on his mind.  He’d paid a decent amount to have him released on top of the initial promise of a percentage from their voyage, after all.  “Mr. Watson, I mean.”  

 

“Undoubtedly.  I know the breed, and while he may be a cowboy, his word is his word.”  Greg reassures him.  “He’ll stick to his promises, no worries.”  

 

Sherlock scoffs at his brother’s words, rolling his eyes.  Yes, the day a man like that is bound by his word alone will be the day that Sherlock strips nude and runs through the marketplace.  No, Sherlock didn’t trust him.  Not one bit.  

 

“Personally, I think he’s filthy.”  He pushes on after a short pause, undeterred by his brother’s words.  “Completely rude and a scoundrel to boot.  I don’t like him one bit.”  

 

“Anyone I know?”  Watson says as he saunters up.

 

Both Sherlock and Greg turn at his voice, expecting to see the man they’d saved the day before from Cairo’s prison, but instead there stands someone completely different.  Watson has walked up with a swagger in his step, and he is completely clean shaven and showered.  His hair is done back neatly, combed and styled, and his clothing looks to be brand new, as the shirt he’s now wearing is crisp, starched, and white.  It is such a difference from the man the day before that Sherlock feels his mouth fall open slightly, a small gasp at such a drastic change.  He’s suitably impressed, and Watson looks dashing.  Handsome, even, as clean and polished as he now is.  

 

“Oh... Um, hello.”  Sherlock stutters.  “Good morning.”  

 

“Morning.”  Watson says to them both, nodding at Sherlock, smirking when he notices the slight flush that’s crept up his neck.  “Everything ready to go?”  

 

“Yes!  We’re ready!  Smashing day for the start of a grand adventure, eh, Watson?”  Greg says with nearly shouted enthusiasm.  “Good weather, better company, delightful start indeed!”  

 

“Yeah, sure, smashing.”  Watson replies, but his eyes haven’t left Sherlock’s face.  “As long as you’re both ready to go.”  

 

“Mister Watson, can you look me in the eye and guarantee me this is not some sort of flimflam?  Because if it is, I’m warning you--”

 

Watson steps up closer to them both, eyes narrowing at Sherlock as he makes his weak threats, nearly invading both their personal spaces as he draws even closer.  Sherlock doesn’t back away, and Watson doesn’t back down.  They hold their ground equally, wills doing silent battle.  

 

“You’re warning me?  Look, my garrison believed in that city so damn much, that without orders, we marched halfway across Libya and into Egypt to find it.  And like I told you before, when we got there, all we found was _sand and blood_.”  

 

With that, Watson pushes by them both, walking up the gangplank of their ship without looking back even once, leaving a speechless Sherlock and an exasperated Greg in his wake.  The passenger boat sways only slightly in the water before Watson is out of sight, leaving a still slightly flabbergasted Sherlock and Greg standing down below.  

 

“Yes, yes, you’re right.  Filthy, rude, a complete scoundrel, with nothing to like about him at all.”  Greg is teasing, but it only irritates Sherlock more, especially when Greg slaps him on the shoulder.  “Stop fussing Sherlock.  Let your hair down!  You might actually have a good time on this trip, if you do.”  

 

Sherlock just gives him a stern, hard look, and Greg continues to just grin as they stand there together, arguing silently.  Sherlock is just about to retort sourly when he is brushed past and sent semi-stumbling into Greg, whose entire face shuts down and turns into a scowl all of his own.  There, standing to Sherlock’s left side now, is Warden Hassan.  He’s dressed in what Sherlock is sure are his best clothes, though hardly any of them match, and he’s carrying a traveling bag tightly in one hand, and his raggedy, rotten hat in the other.  He tips his head towards both of them when he comes to stand with them, a smile on his beady little face.  

 

“A bright good morning to all.”  

 

“Oh no, what are you doing here?”  Sherlock asks rashly and without thought, the anger getting the best of him.  

 

The Warden bristles for a moment before sneering at Sherlock, tipping his head again before walking towards the gangplank.  His face is set into a sneer as he turns.  

 

“I’m here to protect my investment, thank you very much!”  

 

And up the plank he goes, like a rat scurrying up the rope to the top of the ship, disappearing from view just as quickly as he came.  Sherlock and Greg share a dark look before they too walk to the gangplank, adjusting their grip on their baggage before starting the climb up themselves, careful of their footing as they go.  This, Sherlock thought, was going to be the start of something great, he was sure of it.  

 

_It had to be._  

 

\--

 

The moon is full that night, and brightly illuminates the passenger barge they had chartered to take them up the Nile.  It plows on quietly, gliding through the river as they make their journey towards Hamunaptra, just as quietly as a small, unseen skiff does on the dark river below it’s side.  Both move in tandem with the other, one knowingly, the other in ignorance.  The Medjai arriving on the small skiff were going to insure that the quiet of the night wouldn’t stay that way for very long.  Or they’d died trying.  

 

Meanwhile, on deck, Watson comes out onto the main floor from the stairwell leading from a few of the lower cabins and deck, carrying his gunny sack, looking for both Greg and Sherlock.  He needed a word with them about their safety on this trip, about all their safety really, especially when they started off into the desert.  It wasn’t safe out there in good conditions, but now...  Now, with whatever evil was out there and under the sands, it would be even less safe.  And despite how rude Sherlock was, John was was rather beginning to like him.  Spirited is what he was, John had decided, just too spirited for his own damn good.  

 

He finds Greg sitting at a small table with the group of Americans also on this journey up river, a game of poker laid out before them, a series of chips scattered around.  Greg is down more then the other players, but he’s still smiling, chatting amicably with the rest.  Behind them, a small, mousy woman and another man sit together, discussing the merits of some book or another in moderate tones.  Each have a book and a stack of papers out and are comparing their writings, so John assumes they’re academics of some sort.  Teachers, maybe, at a prestigious university, or doctors of some field or another.  But they’re all the same here, each and every one of them.  They’re all looking for something here in Egypt, out in the desert.  John bets they’ve got some recently discovered tomb they’re going too, escorted by the wildly adventurous Americans in their midst.  That is, if they’re even traveling together, but John’s willing to be they are.  The woman’s ring matches one of the men’s at the same table as Greg’s, and there can’t be anything but a marriage there.  Not with how close they are sitting, despite being at separate tables.  

 

Greg’s head rears back as he laughs at something one of the men said when he spots him across the deck, waving him over with a huge, genuine smile and a boisterous wave.  John likes Greg, likes his open personality, and he thinks that if he does botch this up, then at least Greg will still like him at the end.  Sherlock, on the other hand, would probably attempt to set him on fire with his eyes alone.  He’d caught the other man glaring at him throughout the day today from around corners where Sherlock was inevitably set up in a chair or at a table with several books, and a half-burnt piece of parchment paper that John had never seen before.  Whenever he’d see John, he’d stop his work, and stare him down until John grew uneasy or bored and left.  He never invited him to sit down or join him.  

 

“Watson, hey, sit down and join us!”  Greg pats a chair next to his own.  “We could use another good player.  Rather boring with just the three of us.”  

 

“I only gamble with my life, never my money.”  

 

“Never?”  Says one of the men, eyebrow raised.  He looks a lot like Sherlock, John realizes, in his build and face, though his complexion is much darker and his hair is a sandy shade.  “What if I were to bet five hundred dollars says we get to Hamunaptra before you?”  

 

He sounds cocky, and his body language says confident, but something about this man says that this is his first journey out into the desert.  Maybe even first journey far from home, and John can see it.  He gives himself away so easily, so quickly, and it shouts to him like the man had stood up and told him himself.  He’s not as experienced as John is, no, not even close, despite the gun at his hip and a nearby knife sheath lying out in the open.  Plus, he’s traveling with his wife, who has by now turned around to listen in to their conversation.  But she says nothing, and neither does her academic companion.  Watson returns the cocky look with an ease of familiarity.  

 

“And who says we’re going to Hamunaptra?”  

 

“He does.”  They both say together, both pointing at Greg, who grins and shrugs sheepishly.  John should have known.  

 

“Alright then, you’re on.”  

 

“What makes you so confident?”  The other man says.  This one is just as quiet as the woman has been, and is wearing dirty bifocals and dusty clothing.  “Or is that just how you normally are?”  

 

“Well, what makes you all so confident?”  John fires back.  

 

“Because we’ve got a man who’s actually been there, of course.”  The first man replies.  “That’s why.”  

 

John’s poker face goes back up, and he feels himself stilling even as the other man shuffles his cards again, grinning up at John like he’s got some great advantage.  Whoever is taking them out there is either out to steal from them and then leave them for dead, or someone from his garrison must have survived besides him.  Considering he was pretty sure he was the last of them, that only left the first option.  Poor suckers, he thinks.  

 

“I say, what a coincidence, because Watson here--”  John kicks him roughly, and Greg takes the hint, quickly changing his tune.  “-- whose deal is it, anyways?  Is it my deal?  I thought I just dealt.”  

 

They all side eye him before both of the other men turn back to watch him, curiosity flashing in their eyes.  John isn’t here to quench it.  He doesn’t care much at all about their curiosity, actually.  

 

“I’m Henry Knight.”  Says the second man without prompting, and holds out his hand to shake John’s own.  John doesn’t offer his hand back, and Mr. Knight lets his hand drop.  “And this is my friend Tom Birch, his fiancé and wife-to-be, Miss Molly Hooper, and the last of our group, Dr. Philip Anderson.”  

 

John inclines his head to all of them.  As he’d thought, they were all together.  

 

“Well, as you all know, I’m Greg Holmes!  And this here!”  He says, standing, putting his hand on John’s shoulder, despite the death glare John was shooting him.  “This here is John Watson!”  

 

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Watson.”  The woman, Molly says softly.  John nods in recognition before nearly shoving Greg back into his chair.  “And what brings you out to Hamunaptra?”  

 

“Gold, of course, and treasure.”  John replies easily, though he’s not sure if it’s a lie or not.  “And you?”  

 

“Knowledge, actually.”  Is her reply.  She waves at Dr. Anderson who is bristling beside her, fuming at being left out of the conversation.  “My research partner and I are here to find some artifacts and finish up our book.  My husband-to-be and his best friend are here for adventure and treasure themselves.”  

 

And that, John thinks, sets the whole tone for the rest of their journey. 

**Author's Note:**

> Rick O'Connel: John Watson  
> Eve Carnahan: Sherlock Holmes  
> Jonathan Carnahan: Greg Lestrade  
> Imhotep/The Mummy: Jim Moriarty  
> Anck Su Namun: Sebastian Moran  
> Ardeth Bay: Mycroft Holmes  
> Beni Gabor as Himself  
> Dr. Terrance Bey/Curator: Harry Queens  
> Dr. Allen Chamberlain: Philip Anderson  
> Mr. Burns: Molly Hooper  
> Mr. Henderson: Henry Knight  
> Mr. Daniels: Tom Birch  
> Captain Winston Havlock: Mike Stamford


End file.
